Shadowhunters Don't Get Sick
by carlessfreedom
Summary: She didn't even know how it had happened; one minute she had been slaying demons, spattering ichor and entrails everywhere, the next her throat felt swollen and she couldn't breathe through her nose. Just a cute little oneshot where Simon takes care of Isabelle while she's sick. Lots of fluff (like always)!


**Only because everyone needs some more Sizzy fluff in their lives. **

Isabelle Lightwood pressed another thin, cottony tissue up to her nose and attempted to expel the mucus that was lodged in her sinuses. _This is ridiculous, _she thought. Shadowhunters didn't get sick! It was a preposterous notion, like snow in the middle of July or her mother not nagging her about the cleanliness of room. Shadowhunters didn't get sick, especially when you were _Isabelle Sophia Lightwood. _

She didn't even know how it had happened; one minute she had been slaying demons, spattering ichor and entrails everywhere, the next her throat felt swollen and she couldn't breathe through her nose. Simon had been the first to notice, and he had been annoyingly persistent in asking her if she felt okay, until Isabelle could hardly stand it anymore and had stormed off in a rage up to her room, leaving Simon downstairs at the Institute.

Much to her chagrin, Isabelle had not been able to sleep due to the lack of air to her lungs. She had tried everything; sleeping on her back, sleeping with two pillows propped up behind her, but she eventually gave up and just decided not to sleep. It wasn't until the morning rays of the sun had begun to seep through her windows that she decided to venture downstairs. Draping her favorite fuzzy blanket around her shoulders, Isabelle poked her head out of her door and journeyed to the kitchen.

Trudging through the halls of the Institute proved to be difficult. Isabelle felt as if she were carrying a backpack full of rocks, causing her shoulders to ache. And her head felt so pressurized that Izzy was sure that if Church sneezed, her head would surely explode. She lowered herself into a chair at the kitchen table with a pathetic grunt, and rested her throbbing head on the table's surface.

"You look like hell." The voice was immediately recognizable as Alec's.

"I feel like it, too," she retorted, her voice somewhat muffled by the table. "I can't breathe through my nose, my throat hurts, and my head feels like it's going to start spewing my brain out any minute…what's happening to me?" She hated how desperate she sounded, how weak and vulnerable and _small_ her voice had become.

Alec chuckled lightly and dropped into the chair across from her. "I think you just have a cold, Iz."

She raised her head up and narrowed her eyes at him. "I do _not_. Have. A. Cold." She seethed between clenched teeth. No. She wasn't sick. It was impossible.

Alec raised his hands up in mock-surrender. "Whatever you say," he said, making a point to stand.

"Wait!" Isabelle cried, motioning for him to sit back down. He lowered himself down into the chair again and quirked an eyebrow up at her.

"Yes?"

Isabelle fought the urge to roll her eyes. Not only because she wanted her brother's help, but also because she felt that rolling her eyes would just make the incessant pounding in her head worse. "Help me get rid of it," she said softly.

Alec seemed to take pity on his sister. "Alright," he said, "go back up to bed, I'll get you what you need." Isabelle groaned inwardly, knowing that the trip back up to her room was going to be more tedious and laborious than before.

Her bed was a warm and welcoming sight. She pulled the covers over her body, cocooning herself inside the soft, downy sheets. She was somewhere between the realm of reality and dreams when she heard the door creak open and then shut. There was a soft padding of feet across the floor, and then she felt her mattress dip as Alec perched himself on the edge of her bed.

Isabelle peered out from under the covers, her thanks for Alec bubbling up to her lips, but she stopped when she realized it wasn't Alec sitting on the edge of her bed.

It was Simon.

He was wearing a faded dark green t-shirt that hung on his lanky frame with his signature jeans and Chuck Taylors. His dark hair was sticking up wildly, as if he'd passed out after an exhausting night and had just woken up. His brown eyes were filled with concern, but as always, kindness and understanding.

"What are you doing here?" she croaked, wrapping her comforter tighter around her shoulders.

"A little birdy told me you had a cold," he said, bending down to pick up something off of the floor. "So I thought I would help out and take care of you." He held out a steaming, white ceramic bowl towards her.

Isabelle sat up and tried to give him her best scowl, but couldn't seem to manage any malice towards Simon. She was oddly touched that he had come up to her room, especially when he knew how annoyed she was about being sick, in order to take care of her. She gingerly lifted the bowl out of his hands and inhaled the steam. Her mouth watered as the smell of chicken and vegetables wafted to her nose.

"Thank you, Simon," she mumbled, adjusting her pillows behind her. Simon offered her a spoon and smiled.

"It's no big deal," he said. "When I was younger and I would get sick my mom would always make me a bowl of chicken noodle soup. It always seemed to help, even if for a little bit."

The golden broth felt wonderful against her sore throat. It soothed the ache that had formed, and a comforting warmth began to spread throughout her veins. As she slurped her soup, Simon lifted himself off of her bed and walked out of her room. A moment later he returned, holding a large, domed object.

"What is _that_?" Isabelle asked.

"This," Simon said, setting it next to an outlet and plugging the cord in, "is a humidifier. It will help you breathe better." Isabelle watched as he clicked the button and smoky vapor began to spew out of the top. Once again, she was taken aback by Simon's caring nature.

The corner of her mouth quirked up in amusement. "Here," she said, patting the space next to her, "come sit."

A wide grin broke out onto Simon's face as he giddily accepted her offer. He settled down on the bed next to her, kicking off his shoes and folding his hands behind is head.

"So," Isabelle inquired, "am I better now?"

She was shocked when Simon snorted. "What?" She demanded. "This was supposed to help me, right?" Simon just laughed harder. "Simon! Stop laughing!"

"No, Isabelle! You have a cold! Some chicken noodle soup and a humidifier isn't going to fix it right away. You need to rest."

"Dammit!" She shouted, setting down her bowl of soup, none too gently, onto her bedside table. "This is infuriating! Shadowhunters don't get sick. _I _don't get sick." She folded her arms angrily across her chest. "I hate feeling like this; so weak and pathetic." She felt tears of frustration pinpricking the backs of her eyes and she clenched her fists as hard as she could. She would not cry.

"Iz," Simon said softly, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. "I know it's frustrating, but this happens to everyone."

"No, it happens to _mundanes_," Isabelle said venomously. She pressed her knuckles against her temple. "I am _not _a mundane."

Without warning, Simon scooped Isabelle into his arms. She resisted at first, not allowing herself to relax in his embrace, but when he started rubbing soothing circles on her back, she finally rested her head against his chest. His fingers curled in her hair, and the patterns he rubbed on her back and arms sent shivers down her spine. She always felt so…safe with Simon. Every time her life was turned upside down, he was always her one constant. She felt her eyelids begin to droop, and her body felt heavy with fatigue. Simon pressed his cold lips to her heated forehead and Isabelle sighed contentedly.

"Thanks, Simon," she mumbled, her voice already worlds away. Simon smiled down at her sleeping form, watching her swooping eyelashes flutter against her fair skin, he trailed a finger down the slope of her petite nose and traced the outline of her lips. Even in sickness, she was still the most beautiful girl Simon had ever seen.

"Don't mention it," he said, kissing her forehead again.

**The next day…**

When Simon awoke, he expected to still be holding Isabelle, but much to his disappointment, the sheets next to him had gone cold. He sat up and looked around the room. The humidifier had been unplugged and the soup bowl was gone. It was as if Isabelle had vanished into thin air.

Perusing the cavernous halls of the Institute for Isabelle, Simon didn't see Church, and accidentally stepped on his tail, who yowled and leapt to his feet.

"Jesus, Church!" Simon admonished. The Persian regarded him with wide, baleful yellow eyes. "Have you seen Isabelle?" Church merely turned his head away from Simon to look down the hall.

Simon scoffed. "Some help you are." He continued down the hall when it suddenly hit him where Isabelle would be: the training room.

When he reached the door, he stopped and stared in awe. Isabelle was clearly feeling _much _better. She was wielding her electric whip, slashing and slicing patterns through the air, her hair sticking to her neck with sweat. She was the perfect image of regal, holding her head high like a ruthless queen, hacking her enemies to pieces.

"Well, I see you've recovered," Simon interjected, propping himself up against the door frame. Isabelle grinned at him and swept some loose hair back from her face.

"I am!" She said, letting her whip snake around her wrist. She approached Simon, her eyes filled with appreciation. "Being a Shadowhunter has its perks…my body gets rid of sickness much faster than a mundane's. Plus, I had you." She clasped his fingers, running her thumb over his knuckles.

Simon smirked. "So what you're saying is that I'm your cure?"

Isabelle shoved his arm lightly. "Don't flatter yourself, Lewis. All you did was feed me some soup."

"Excuse me?" Simon demanded, his ego wounded. "All I did was _feed you soup_?"

Isabelle laughed and reached up on her tip toes to kiss him on the mouth. "I'm kidding, Simon! You are the sweetest, most chivalrous gentlemen for taking care of me."

"Handsome," Simon said, tilting her chin up to kiss her again. "You forgot handsome." Isabelle's laughter was a welcome sound. They both surged towards each other, eager to share their appreciation and longing in one, loving gesture. The smoothness of Isabelle's lips sparked a fire inside Simon's veins, and despite her heated kiss, her fingers were gentle as they trailed along his jawline.

"It's good to have you back, Iz." He said, drawing her closer to him.

"It's good to be back."

**Oh, and did I mention when I wrote this I was sick? And did I have a cute boy to bring me chicken noodle soup and kiss me and play with my hair? NO I DID NOT. But am I bitter? Only a little. **

**I'd love to know what you all thought! Happy reading! **


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